


1989

by flowersaretarts



Series: Violets [10]
Category: Withnail & I (1986)
Genre: 20 years later AU, Aged Characters, Aging, Comfort, M/M, Marwood - Freeform, withnail - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 01:22:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5987371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersaretarts/pseuds/flowersaretarts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time change, you lose, you gain. (c) BR</p>
            </blockquote>





	1989

Marwood was pacing to and fro across his writing room.  
Oh, right. He did have his writing room, converted a few years ago from a barn into a habitable place of retreat.

The Crow Crag had changed a lot over two decades; it was slowly cleansed of its aura of misery and brought back to life, with a little help from their friends and uncle Montague's Christmas envelopes for his loving nephew. No more dead crows up the chimney, cold and despair.It was a place they could call home. indeed.  
Vyvian was initially against settling in this "bloody shack", but London constantly made him sick and staying in the proximity to his dear brothers in Nottingham was so unbearable, that he gave in to Peter's sensible suggestion.

The bottle on the desk, the inevitable glass of red since early morning. Marwood could not write a line without the "juice of life", especially on those days when the rain started hitting the roof.  
Which was fairly often, given their geographical location. This routine costed him his looks, but he was beyond vanity by then. He gave up acting and told his agent never call him again.  
Whatever credits he had were enough to earn him connections, good friends, invitations and the access to the finest beverages.  
He was a confirmed technophobe, typing each and every work of his on an obsolete IBM. The only reason he said goodbye to his Olivetti was that the poor old machine begged for mercy with it sounds and looks.

He couldn't sit still, ever. He scratched his head, ruffled his hair, walked in circles, muttering. That voice, which was punching him from inside and making him transform his mess of a head into verbal forms, manifested itself in a very loud form. What a twenty-something Peter was thinking or whispering, became a thirty-year-old Peter's audible mumbling, and then a straightforward hollering after he hit forty.  
His habit of speaking the inner dialogue out loudly became so irritating that Withnail insisted his friend got "his own fucking room for his mad bollocks and left him alone, for all saint's sake!"

To say that Withnail had given up his unhealthy habits would be a ridiculous notion. He, however, reduced the amount of daily intake and stopped experimenting with uncertain chemicals.  
He had a good life, Vyvian. He was a proud heir of not only his uncle's exquisite cellar; the collection included all the "trophies" he and Peter used to bring back from touring the province in their young days.  
Did we just hear "touring"? Well, as a matter of fact, Withnail did have a job (controversially to Marwood's whining). Not a constant one, yet he could now proudly say he was an actor, a stage assistant, a handwriting specialist, a model and a card box sealing contest winner.  
One could say, he mellowed down a bit, under the safe wing of his infinitely patient lover. He was still a heart of any company at every pub or party they went to. He bragged, pranced, soliloquized, lectured, criticized and recited, but there was less fury and more tired irony in him.  
But those who met them wouldn't miss much of that, for now all the ranting and raving was extensively performed by Peter Marwood.

"Cunts!"

Withnail nearly dropped his book. He was in the dining room, which was right near the former barn, so he could hear every sound coming out of the "hermit's cave".  
It used to be the other way around: him, behind the wall screaming and smacking, and timid gentle Peter shuddering on the other side.  
Withnail learned to sense and predict his partner's behaviour, which wasn't too hard to do. Yet, he would nearly jump on the spot, whenever the door slammed open and the swearing raging sweaty maniac rushed out, barely noticing the surroundings.

"And I hate your guts, you hear me? By God, I loath the very sight of your fucking face."

The madman stopped in his tracks.

Their eyes met and he started getting out of his trance.

"Sorry, did you say anything?" asked Marwood, slightly embarrassed (despite the fact that this scene repeated itself nearly every week).

"What the fuck are you doing in there?" spat out Withnail (despite knowing perfectly well what that insane bastard was up to).

"The Ulcer." was the brief reply.

Peter tend to find himself an object of passion and then go completely obsessed with it. His first screenplay about the weapon making conspiracy of the government was a huge success. Never mind the director, who cut out Peter's name off the credits after they had a row.  
A con artist thriller, a short surreal comedic play, a book of short stories inspired by his childhood memories. They were nice and well-written, but weren't his favourites.  
Now his mind was preoccupied with anger at the ruling party and the country's politics, and the person behind all the boiling mess, who he saw as a disease, an ulcer on a body of the land. He became impossible to bring to dinner parties. Much like Withnail ten years ago, he had to be dragged away, for he would open his massive gob and yack, venting his bile onto the startled guests.

"Would you just quit banging that machine and come over here? I have made a mash."

He truly had. There weren't many culinary achievements in Withnail's career, but he found his way of dealing with potatoes.  
Marwood kept frowning. His mind wasn't there, it belonged inside that study, with the shelves full of priceless books, and a stuffed raven with a cigarette in his beak.

Withnail watched him poking his plate with an absent-minded expression, then said.

"Alright, just fuck off to your room and get this bastard done."

Peter smiled at him, feeling a bit guilty but incapable of concealing his rush.

"I am sorry, With. Go to bed now, I promise, I won't stay up too late."

Peter kissed his temple and adjusted the silk stripe under collar of his cardigan. A piece of neckwear, was it a scarf, a cravat or a bandage, was a part of Withnail's wardrobe at all times. As if it would help.  
He wasn't unwell, not at all. Or so the doctors said. His voice sounded harsher, lower than before, "with a touch of macabre", as he joked.

But other than that, things looked rosy.

The chickens were asleep in their pen, the hound gave a lonely bark, the typewriter was clicking slower and slower as its owner's head kept lowering towards the desk.  
He wouldn't write anything worth deciphering. Withnail knew that. Wine stains on the paper felt more appropriate than tears on the pillow. And Withnail knew that, too.

He got out of their bed (or rather his own, since the doctor's visit), went downstairs and tiptoed into the writing room. He heard a quiet snore, sighed with relief, then covered Peter with an old dressing gown.  
His throat hurt again, but everything should feel better with a gulp of red.  
And so it did.


End file.
